Deep down, you knew you’d been very naughty this year. Whether it was cheating on your boyfriend with that cute guy from work, or leaving nasty anonymous comments all over the web. But it shouldn’t matter, right? That Santa Clause stuff is all hocum anyway. It’s not like some fat man is going to climb down your chimney and leave you a lump of coal.
No, that would be too easy.
Because you’re not getting off the hook this year. This Christmas, you wake up to the feeling of hands holding you down. Invisible hands, gripping your arms and legs. You try and struggle, but the invisible force continues to bind you as a large man walks up to the edge of your bed. He might be wearing a bright red Santa cap, but with muscles the size of bowling balls, he’s about as far from Jolly St. Nick as you can get.
He leans down towards you, his hot breath steaming up your face as he whispers: “worship me.” Your hands begin to move, involuntarily, all over the vast landscape of his chest, running through the hair that coats his pecs, his abs, his pits. You try to stop yourself, but the force controlling your body only picks up speed.
The man groans. He brings is colossal arms up and flares out his lats, flexing his biceps. You find yourself worshiping his arms, kissing every inch of his skin. It’s warm as a crackling fire, hot as burning coal. For the first time, you begin to loose yourself to the pleasure, surrendering your mind to this mystery figure as your body begins to loose mass, shrinking down…
You know what’s coming before he even says it. “Blow me,” he moans, gripping his dick through his crimson red briefs. You bring a spindly-fingered hand down to his bursting bulge and rub his cock, your mouth making its way down the canyons of his abs. By now, he’s got you wrapped around his little—or shall I say BIG finger.
Heat radiates from inside his underwear. You get down on all fours, face level with his now throbbing pouch, and unsheathe his monster. It slaps you on the face as it escapes, a bit of frosting dribbling from the tip. “Lick it up,” master orders, and you obey.
You take his cock in your mouth. It’s far too big to fit down your throat, but he doesn’t care. He grabs the back of your head and pushes you down. Gagging, you begin to feel the muscles inside your mouth grow and transform, accommodating for the manhood throat-fucking you into sweet oblivion. It is almost as if your throat was tailor made for his dick, like it would feel empty without it.
He pulls out and flips your around. Only now do you notice how light you’ve become, how big he really is. Your perky pink hole now aches for his dick, the inside of your ass preparing for the ultimate package. The ultimate present.
“Merry Christmas,” he says, and thrusts forward. Your vision blurs into a mirage of colored lights. He’s fucking the sense out of you, completely and totally transforming you into his faithful servant, his naughty bitch. The final touches—two pointed ears—and you’ve become Santa’s favorite elf. But you won’t be helping him make toys. Instead, you are the toy. You exist solely to satisfy his primal urges, a mouth to swallow and an ass to fuck whenever he gets horny (which, might I say, is quite often).
Maybe if you hadn’t been so naughty, maybe if you had been a good boy just like everyone else, maybe then you wouldn’t be stuck here, taking Santa’s hot, steaming load over and over and over. Not that you’ll be thinking about that, of course. I can’t imagine you’ll be thinking about much of anything from now on. Only servicing that hot mountain of a body and his throbbing North Poll.
Merry Christmas indeed.
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